Delirium
by Euregatto
Summary: "As long as you're mine to break," she says, "I won't be sorry for anything." - Nine instances in which the fine line between Annie's hate and remorse is swept away by the doubt Eren brings to her mind, and ultimately, he pays the price. [Eren x Annie] vent fic


**A/N:** Just been going through some shit these last few weeks so I made this as more of a vent fic, like compiling all my pent up anger into... well, whatever this is. Enjoy regardless~ Let me know if you liked it, new style and all.

And since I'm on the topic of being driven up a wall, I'm dedicating this to Deus-Orion.

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One

* * *

"Why do you insist on talking to me, Jaeger?"

He laughs; it's infuriating and it makes her sick to see someone possess such levels of childish jubilee in her venomous presence. "Because I want us to be friends."

"That would be a mistake."

**_I'm only going to break you down and choke you out with my bare hands you fucking dolt._**

* * *

Two

* * *

She thinks that the harbored feeling she has for him can best be pointedly described as annoyance, or loathing, or if she was in a generous mood, she would even consider calling it _hate_.

His eyes are like a storm above the forest, and it says everything about him – he's malevolent and untamed and free, just like every one else, but still so goddamn _different_ and _independent_ and _astounding_. And she wants nothing more than to be a ravaging fire that consumes him from that wild soul out to his pathetic shell, some kind of omnipotent emotion that consequently enrages her, causes her to dig her nails into her scalp and press into her pallid skin until she draws blood.

She would be thorough enough not to leave a single trace of him behind.

And yet this doesn't feel like _hate_ to her, it is just a seething desperation.

* * *

Three

* * *

She despises him, she can't explain why.

She _wants_ to like him with every fiber of her being, but she has never been capable of liking _anyone_, and with good reason. She is only required to crush bones and smash skulls and leave massacres in her wake. But he has this charm, some kind of suave he probably isn't aware of, and he gives her dorky smiles on the worst occasions and it makes her heart flutter and her hands itch to tear every rib from the cage of his chest.

In retrospect, he makes her feel _happy_, or at least renews within her a level of purity that bubbles worthlessly in her poisoned blood stream.

Then she realizes she despises herself more than she despises him. **It makes her hate him more**.

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Four

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She doesn't know why she does it, nor why he lets her – but it's amazing, sick and wrong and blissful, and it's just a stupid kiss. It _was_ a stupid kiss, anyway, because now they're here, laying in his bed for a long while in the aftermath, and she's fisting his bister locks and pushing his head down into the pillow. She's silently demanding that he poison her with everything that he is, all his potential and the essence of his existence, one more time, or until she feels she's had enough of him.

She'll fuck him and break him and scratch him up and kiss him tenderly like she actually cares for this sickening little charade of theirs; but he isn't allowed to use his hands because the thought _bothers_ her. His natural knack for caring would smolder her perfect delusion.

So he doesn't touch her unless she's the one guiding his fingers, and lets her abuse him for her own selfish desires.

It's mad and beautiful and it burns her core like writhing animosity.

Afterwards, when she leaves him without a word of consent and the regret settles into her body like her clockwork hate, she buries her face into the back of her jacket and screams her rage into the emblem of the lie she's been living all this time.

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Five

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When they're at it again – she blames him for holding her gaze too long during breakfast, igniting her with the dark peridot passion she's been drowning in since they've met, coupled with her own direful regrets – she still doesn't want him to touch her, but he's so keen on disregarding her orders and having his way _that he does_.

She breaks his middle finger as compensation.

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Six

* * *

He tells the infirmary doctor that he broke his finger when he tripped and fell into the wall, but at dinner when everyone questions his splint, he says – _lies_ – that he just tripped up during training and didn't notice it was broken until Annie pointed it out. He stresses her name, fumbles with the rest of his bluff, avoids making eye contact with Mikasa or Armin because they'll _know_. They probably already do.

He glares at her across the mess hall.

She returns the gesture with a coy, almost uncharacteristic grin.

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Seven

* * *

She corners him at some point, a few days after he's healed.

Every ounce of pent up hatred she's ever had for him boils over into some twisted kind of giddiness, almost like she's toying with him, and somewhere in her derailed, fractured mind she likes the control she can openly assert on him, her fingers around his throat even when they aren't together. It makes her lips twitch at the thought of melding with his, makes her fingertips numb at the anticipation of slicing through his skin.

Even though he's bitter towards her for breaking both his finger and his sense of trust in her, and quite frankly he wants her to fuck off elsewhere because he's sick of her psychological bullshit, she ruts her hips against his and the next thing he knows he's cursing because he's actually fucking _affected_. Just like _that_.

_"You wanted to be my friend first,"_ she whispers, bringing her knee up to the obvious bulge in his jeans, roughly rotating in almost perfect circles.

_"_I've never taken _no_ as an answer," is his response, breathless, so very, very affected.

The smug gleam in her eyes ebbs into sheer, unholy rage. She knows he knows he's just a fuck toy, why is he being so-

Suddenly she's aware he enjoys it, that he's _always_ enjoyed it, and there's nothing left in him for her to break. No number of bones can fix this now.

* * *

Eight

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She pushes him down against the mattress, same as always, but she isn't interested in touches or kisses or fucks. She just uses him as an excuse to finally break down like the crumbling pillar she's always been.

And she cries.

He pulls her to his chest and lets her sob uncontrollably into the fabric of his shirt. He strokes her sunlit hair. He rubs her back. He kisses her forehead.

She chooses not to break anything in his hands this time, as compensation.

* * *

Nine

* * *

"I wanted to apologize for being such a horrible person to you."

"But?"

She slides her hands up, enclosing them around his throat, with the pads of her thumbs pressed gently up against his windpipe and her nails digging harmlessly into the tender flesh of the back of his neck. She could snap it, right now, or press down and choke him and get off on watching the life drain from his eyes at the touch of her own toxic skin. It ignites a blinding fire in her torso, the urge threatening to dirge through what little sanity she has left.

"As long as you're mine to break, _I won't be sorry for anything."_

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End file.
